


There's a Better Home Waiting

by sugarboat



Series: Anon Prompt Writing [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Cunnilingus, F/M, used for non-canon-typical purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: This Archivist is weak.
Relationships: Jane Prentiss/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Anon Prompt Writing [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889935
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	There's a Better Home Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> 100 words of depraved smut. There are Worms involved.

This Archivist was weak. She had him pinned beneath her. Writhing. Twisting his body in a futile effort to escape, as if every roll of his hips or frantic flail of his arm didn’t expose more of his flesh to her hive. Like she couldn’t taste his fear across her multitude of mouths, sweet and pungent and salty with sweat. 

She would taste his meat, soon. Hear the stutter-staccato of his heart turn into the thumping bassline of the hive’s song, his screams turn into willowy refrains as he joined them. He was the Archivist – he wanted to know things, didn’t he? And she wanted to show him, show him how it could be, how _good_ it could be, how complete the embrace, how full the love, full to bursting. 

The Archivist’s head between her thighs, she lowered herself. The tatters of her dress raised, her hand between them spreading herself. It made fluid like an oil slick drip down across his lips, so that he gagged and spat before she pressed herself to his mouth. His whimpers buzzed against her flesh – nothing as good as the undulating roar of the swarm inside her, but good all the same. A new kind of good, because even as she had to rut herself against his face and rub herself off with her own fingers, there was power to this. The poor little Archivist trying to breathe around her, whining every time a part of her hive found purchase and _dug_ , and bit. Swallowing her down as she leaked steadily into his mouth. Gagging when a worm twisted it way out of her innards and onto his tongue, crying when it chewed its way out of him through his cheek. 

She finished once against his mouth, her hand fisted in his hair to angle him correctly. Against his tongue that had slipped out to lap clumsily and eagerly at her slit and clit, like he thought he could hurry to the end of his use. Every clench of her, she could feel them, her family writhing inside her, their frenzy at the nearness of so much soft, fertile flesh. Her hips stuttered and everything heightened to a sharp, unbearable cacophony – the pleasure of her body, the pleasure of her swarm, and her muscles tightened and relaxed all in a rush until she sagged into the Archivist, rolling herself into the timid tongue coaxing the aftershocks of her orgasm out of her. 

He was relieved when she lifted off of him. Her swarm was still holding back, had only wriggled inside him in the most superfluous of manners. The Archivist tried to roll to his side, spitting out dribbles of her arousal. Half chewed worms crushed by his clumsy, gnashing teeth. His muscles quivered and refused to respond. From fear or from how her hive had chewed him back, winding themselves into the curves of his shoulders and calves. Avoiding the soft, tender parts of him.

She would help them change that. She would help them change _him_. She lifted up his shirt and heard him moan. She shuffled his belt loose, and tugged his slacks free, folded his legs up with his knees pressed to his shoulders. So much smooth, unmarked skin. So much wasted to house one single, solitary animal. 

The Archivist whimpered and begged, too weak to struggle effectually. She pet her hands along the inside of his thighs, and watched her swarm dig into the soft, pale flesh and red muscle below. He twitched violently at the brush of her fingers over his wilted cock, like he could convince himself to break free. When she pressed her fingers to his hole, slicked with arousal from between her own legs, he let out a fragile, tremulous whine. 

His body yielded to her as easily as it yielded to her swarm. Betraying how, for all his complaints, he was primed for this. He would be happy, she thought, twisting two fingers inside him. Everyone wanted to belong. The Archivist would want to be part of something greater than himself, loosened from the shackles of his own greed. She pulled her fingers back until they were barely hooked in his rim, holding him spread open. Guiding some of her swarm to wiggle into the soft, clenching muscles she’d worked loose for them. 

She could feel them writhe next to her fingers as she pushed back deep into the Archivist, until the knuckles of her hand ground against his flesh. Drawing back and feeling how her worms burrowed ever deeper, pausing at his rim again to hold him open for more. 

He would make a beautiful home. He would be happy. He would be complete.


End file.
